


Well, I Came Home

by Welsh_Woman



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welsh_Woman/pseuds/Welsh_Woman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up one morning to find someone he never expected at his door...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I was browsing through my tumblr and came across a picture by Reapersun and it was RANDOM PLOT BUNNY ATTACKS!!!
> 
> So, yeah...
> 
> The picture is here, in case anyone wants to have a look:
> 
> http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/29113187477/well-i-came-home-like-a-stone-and-i-fell-heavy

This should be inconceivable.

Improbable.

_Impossible_.

Futile to even think of.

Yet, living with Sherlock has shown John that the impossible is actually more likely to happen than he originally thought, and this moment is the cementing of that revelation: Sherlock Holmes, thought by the entirety of London-including John-to be dead, is standing on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street, looking for all the world as if he had just returned home from solving one of Lestrade's cases for him.

Breathing.

Bruised.

**_Alive_**.

John cannot speak past the lump in his throat, can't figure out which of the emotions coursing through him to give in to; the shock that Sherlock is standing there, breathing and moderately well in front of him, anger that Sherlock had apparently faked his own death and waited _three bloody years_ to finally show his face, or the overwhelming joy that Sherlock was _alive_...

It's too much and not enough; John wants to demand answers, shake the truth out of Sherlock as he calls him every name he ever learned in the army and a few he made up, he wants to embrace the git, squeeze him tight and admonish him for making him worry and demand that he _never_ do anything like that ever again, and he also wants to punch the bloody bastard in the face for making John **_watch_** -

In the end, the decision was taken out of his hands as Sherlock decides to collapse right in front of him, making John's heart lurch so painfully in his chest he actually feels it like a physical pain and he's moving without any conscious thought on his part.

This time, when Sherlock falls, John catches him.

The feel of Sherlock's body-solid, warm, _real_ -against his is too much for John and he feels his eyes well up as Sherlock's fingers grip John like he's a lifeline, as Sherlock's gaze focuses on him and for a blinding, heart-stopping second, Sherlock's lips quiver into an honest-to-God _smile_!

The tears finally fall as Sherlock uses his last bit of strength to utter a single, soft word that brushes warm air against the army doctor's face like a cleansing breeze:

" _ **John**_..."


	2. Chapter 2

The next few seconds are a blurred panic as John pulls Sherlock's unconscious body into 221 Baker Street, up the stairs, and into the flat that they shared. The flat that is now completely empty of Sherlock's things, of any trace that the man in question had ever lived there, the flat that he had just been thinking about moving out of...

What would he have done if he found out that Sherlock had come looking for him, and he hadn't been there...?

John quickly pushes the thought away as he focuses on the man in his arms, the specter that showed up at his door and collapsed in front of him without so much as a 'by-your-leave'. He knows that if he starts thinking of anything that might have happened, anything that _may_ happen, he will be unable to help Sherlock and his reappearing act will be all for nothing.

For, now that he isn't blinded so much by every emotion known to man coursing through his veins by slipping into 'military doctor' mode, John can see that Sherlock is not very well off; there are bruises covering nearly every inch of flesh that John exposes in his quick and efficient strip of Sherlock's clothing, wanting to get the ragged coat and vest- _the very same ones Sherlock had been wearing when he had stood on a rooftop telling John that he had researched the ex-army doctor, that he was a fraud before simply letting himself fall and **stop, breathe, focus on what needs to be done**_ -off and gone, wincing at the few scrapes and cuts he also uncovers as he gets rid of all of Sherlock's clothing, save his pants, before sighing with relief that there is nothing there that John cannot handle and therefore Sherlock had not endangered himself by apparently coming straight here instead of getting medical care.

John pushes away the thought that he is just happy that Sherlock doesn't have to go anywhere and can stay in the flat for as long as John wants; also violently squashing the thought that 'as long as he wants' actually covers an alarmingly large number of years, because these thoughts are dangerous and distracting and will have him crying again, which he cannot and _will not_ do. While most of Sherlock's wounds are superficial, there _are_ a few that will take some care and John will not be able to help Sherlock if he's too busy being emotional to pay proper attention to them.

So with chilling familiarity, John ignores the fact that Sherlock is on his kitchen table in almost nothing as he pulls the medical kit out of the supply closet, barely noticing that the shake in his hand that popped up again is gone and gives in to the training that had helped him keep most of his army mates from dying on the front lines. Those same skills he never thought he need to use here, in this flat, on one of the most important people in his life...

Setting down the antiseptic and bandages, John places both hands over his face and breathes in nice and slow before exhaling the same way, waiting until both his inhale and exhale are steady before he picks the tools of his trade back up. He can break down later, right now he has a job to do and a patient to take of, he's seen worse on the battlefield, he's stitched up worse wounds than the ones that peppered Sherlock's body... but then again, none of them had mattered to him as much as Sherlock did- _ **does**_ -and none of them disappeared on him for _three years_ -

A wince or two and several small cries from Sherlock later, John had him completely stitched and bandaged up, had even managed to get him into some new clothes. How and why John had something that fit Sherlock when he was both shorter and of different build than him was not something John wants to think too hard on right this moment, so he just maneuvered Sherlock over to the couch so that he could keep an eye on him while making some tea and giving himself a little distance to think.

Of course, Sherlock still being the Sherlock that John knew, decided that moment was the perfect time to wake up.

"John..."

The rasping, underused sound of Sherlock's voice hits John just as hard as the first time, and he's on the verge of tears again as he glances down to see Sherlock's gaze is locked on his as desperate as any child looking for reassurance. John has to swallow past the lump in his throat a few times before he can answer and when he does, his voice is as much of a rasp as his flatmate's.

"It's me, Sherlock, it's really me."

Sherlock's hand, which had immediately reached out for John when he regained consciousness, tightens the hold he found on John's arm, nearly pulling the smaller man down on top of him in a surprising show of strength; as it is, John barely manages to shift himself away from Sherlock's bandaged side and also somehow manages to end up with the consulting detective's head against his chest and his legs on either side of the lithe body on top of him. "Sherlock, what-?"

"Data... tired... feel..."

Just like that, Sherlock is unconscious again, but John understands what Sherlock is doing from the garbled words he just sprouted; much like the feel of Sherlock's body in his arms told John that this was real and not some desperate dream, Sherlock's head against his chest listening to his heartbeat pounding away is the man's own reassurance that he is finally home.

Home at _**last**_.


	3. Meet Mary

Any medical man with a doctorate can tell you that laying on a couch that is just barely your size with someone that is at least a good head and a half taller draped over you like you're his own personal life-sized teddy bear will lead to some complications, despite how often it is romanticized in books, movies, and the like; some of these problems include loss of blood flow, the 'pins and needles' that one gets when they stay in one place for too long, strained muscles and various other medical sounding things that let you know that the above scenario is generally a bad idea...

As far as John Watson was concerned, they could all go to hell.

The pressure of the body cutting off his circulation was more proof to his overwrought brain that the man spread over him was really _there_ , the steady heartbeat drumming against his knee and pressing it against the bars of the couch a rhythm that he could have danced to if he was in any position to do so, and the heavy weight of Sherlock's head, with its adornment of long, ebony curls, pressing against his chest was a weight he would gladly carry... even if it was cutting off his airway at the time.

It was only the thought that he couldn't go through Sherlock coming back from the dead just for him to die on the consulting detective instead has John moving at all...

At first, John just shifts a little, trying to gauge how deeply Sherlock is sleeping; the man grumbles a bit before tightening his grip on John, burrowing his face in the smaller man's chest even more deeply, a half formed word-a word that sounds suspiciously like 'don't'-slipping past his lips. It takes a few minutes of John stroking his fingers through Sherlock's hair, murmuring soothing words into his forehead, before Sherlock calms down enough to loosen his grasp.

Keeping his fingers tangled in their dance across Sherlock's skull, John tries moving again; this time he's able to rearrange his body into a more comfortable position before Sherlock mumbles a bit and then states, very clearly, “Stop fidgeting, John.” before mumbling some more. He also shifts a little bit, so more of his weight is on the couch instead of his flatmate, so he must have been able to figure out that John wasn't trying to get rid of him and was simply uncomfortable.

John smiles- _smiles_ -as he looks down at Sherlock's tucked in form; even in his sleep, the man can't stop deducing things...

Incredible.

Amazing.

_Fantastic_.

Oh, god, he's going to start crying again if he thinks about it, and he hasn't cried this much in the three years Sherlock was _**gone**_ , _why_ has he turned into such a leaky hose _now_...?!? By all rights, he should be bloody _**furious**_ ; Sherlock _tricked_ him, Sherlock _lied_ to him, and- _ **worse of all**_ -Sherlock made him think that the man was _dead_...

He _can_ feel his anger simmering underneath his skin, a heavy weight pressing against his chest that offsets the lightness of the head that rests there; it's a coiling sensation that flows through his veins much like many poisons he's had to deal with in his medical career, a poison that John had hoped he had cured with the three years of grief and mourning that he had to deal with, but all that hard work is destroyed the instant that the man he thought all that pain was for showed up on his doorstep.

” _ **I had bad days**_!” That had been an idle rebuttal when he had spat it at Sherlock, but there _had_ been days when the anger that he had been feeling-at the war, at how useless he had felt when he had been unable to save someone, the days when it felt like the whole world was against them-made him pull a few of his mates away from everyone for a good ol' round of fisticuffs. There were days when he had not stopped until one of them was bloodied and bruised, the droning ringing in his ears finally settling down into a dull hum as those around him shook their heads and told him he needed to find a different method to deal with his boredom.

There are many reasons why he loved working with Sherlock, many reasons why he had nothing to say when Mycroft had stated that he wasn't broken by the war, that he missed it; most thought that it was for the adventure, that he was incapable of living a sedentary life after the tumult of war...

Well, those people would have been half right, at least.

While he is both doctor and soldier, friend and one of the people that Sherlock left behind, John is still not sure what emotion he should give in to... After all, they’ve had three years to grow in magnitude, hiding under the flimsy veneer of recovery and instead festering into a hidden wound that Sherlock's return had violently jarred open; it leaves him scrambling to try and salvage himself against the rot that is slowly creeping over him, overtaking all the healing he thought he had done in a desperate attempt to move past Sherlock's 'death'.

Shaking his head at the insanity of his life, John is just about to give into the wave of exhaustion that hits him and follow Sherlock into the blessed thoughtlessness of sleep when there is a knock at their flat door.

John immediately shifts himself to a sitting position, one hand on Sherlock's back to check that his breathing is regular and steady as he curses himself for not grabbing his gun earlier; _**he needs it now, needs it to keep Sherlock** safe_, and the other to brace himself on the sofa as he tries to figure out who it could be and how much of a threat they might pose.

Mycroft is his first thought, hopeful and a little defensive, but then the reality of Sherlock's wounds intrudes and the knowledge that the person that gave them to him might have followed him to Baker Street hits, giving him a decent amount of panic before the rational, Sherlock-sounding part of his brain interrupts with the logic that if someone was trying to finish his flatmate off, they wouldn't knock on the door.

It threw in a bored sounding “Obviously.” as well, because even when his thoughts decide to take on Sherlock's temperament and reasoning skills, they're judgmental arses...

A second round of knocking draws John out of his mental recollection, making him wonder just who it could be that they bothered to knock a second time; now that he had time to think about it, Mycroft didn't really seem a possibly for the simple reason that the berk would just wait until John left the room to pop in, probably remarking on the fact that John had picked up a new 'addition' for his sofa with that damn knowing _smirk_ of his. Mrs. Hudson had her own key and rarely came round anyway, while John's list of friends that even know where he lives are few and far between, so who could-?

“John? Are you home?” The voice that comes through is female and familiar, making John start with recognition, almost bowling Sherlock to the floor with the sheer surprise that runs through him like the aftershock of an electric current. “I rang your mobile, but you weren't answering and I got worried...”

Oh.

Right.

He had planned-

But that was before Sherlock-

He needed to-

He couldn't leave-

Maybe if he just...?

“John Hamish Watson, I swear to God that if you don't answer this door or your mobile, I'm calling the police!”

“Give me a moment!” His voice is shaky, but the last thing he needs is for Lestrade to show up and see Sherlock passed out on his couch; John barely has had time to figure out how _he_ feels about Sherlock coming back, he doesn't need someone _else_ taking up his time by shoving their own feelings on him.

As it is, getting out from underneath Sherlock without waking him is a chore and a half, not at all helped by the fact that him answering the knocking has _not_ quieted his caller's tirade, as justified as it may be: “I swear, John, if you wanted to be left alone, you could have texted me! I rang you at least three times before I came over here and even then I waited a good _two hours_ before showing up, because the _last_ thing I wanted to do was pester you if this was a bad day, but you got me so _worried_!”

Opening the door right as she's winding down, John gives himself a moment to take in the sight of beautifully bobbed hair a shade lighter than his own dirty brown, bright blue eyes tinged with the care that she spoke of, and rouge painted lips that are no doubt parted to give him another tongue lashing that he can't take right now.

“Mary,” John sighs, smiling a little when her mouth clicks shut and her eyes widen even more in concern; he's a little glad that this is happening now, that he can stop the frantic dashes over to 221B whenever she thinks something has happened to him, that the anxiety that prematurely lines her face can finally be put to rest...

“We need to talk.”

\-------

When John Watson had first met Mary Morstan, he was about three pints into his Ten Pint Sunday and not really looking for any kind of company that might have glanced his way.

Mary, bless her soul, didn’t know any of that or anything about him when she took the stool next to him at the pub.

“So, family member or lover?”

John may or may not have split half his drink down his jumper, trying not to remember a deeper voice asking a similar question when _they_ had first met...

“W-what?”

The woman sitting beside him had given him a small smile and thankfully for all involved, it did not hold any pity or superiority; John was almost sure that he wasn’t in the mindset to deal with either of those tonight, despite the fact that the liquid that he managed to actually make to his mouth was starting to give him that numb feeling he had been chasing since the first drink he swallowed, nevermind the fact that he was dealing with a woman instead of a bloke.

“Well, from what I saw, you’ve had about three girls, two women, and one very obvious bloke try to chat you up, something that you barely shifted yourself to grunt at, much less make polite conversation for.” She had giggled at the face John made at her comment; he remembers thinking that he should tell her that he isn’t gay, and wasn’t in the mood for company anyway, but she had continued her statement before the order could go from his brain to his lips, “The only time I’ve ever seen someone be _that_ oblivious was when they had just broken up with their last partner, and are still in the pained-filled-days-and-lonely-nights stage or a member of their family had just died.”

With a flourish worthy of a magician, or a certain consulting detective, the woman had pulled off the scarf around her neck and laid it over the back of her seat before settling herself in as she turned to John with a slightly dimmer smile, “So: family member or lover?”

There had been a brief moment when John had contemplated telling her to bugger off, that whatever reason he had for getting completely pissed on a Saturday night was none of her bloody business, but he was so tired of telling people that knew that he was fine, and dodging all the people that didn’t.

This woman obviously didn’t know who he was or who he had known-although that had to be a mystery worthy of Sherlock Holmes himself, considering how the news was still blaring the news of ‘the suicide of fake genius’ all over the telly and the papers-and instead of questioning her motives, he just let himself _go_ for one night.

“It wasn’t... I’m not... It’s not like you think, although you and half of bloody London keep getting that all mixed up; he wasn’t a family member or lover.” The flash of pain he felt at the admission made his chest heave and John had looked at his pint, wishing that he hadn’t swallowed it down so quickly, that he would have something to wash away the bitter taste those words leave in his mouth.

Sherlock _wasn’t_ family, nor was he John’s lover, but he _was_ a strange mixture of both that made John scramble on more than one occasion to try to figure out what in the bloody Hell Sherlock actually _was_ to him; the feelings of frustrated care and grudging acceptance for his faults are emotions that only Harry had been able to produce in him, while the sudden want to hold and defend- _ **violently**_ , in some cases-are things that he had only ever allowed himself to indulge in whenever he was with a date.

(Harry would kick his arse halfway back to Afghanistan if he ever tried ‘to pull that overloaded testosterone bullocks on her like she needed a bloody _man_ to defend her’ or even _thought_ about it where she could somehow pick up on it.

His sister was perceptive when she wanted to be.

It was one of the reasons why he loved her so fiercely... her inability to keep out of trouble notwithstanding.)

“Oh?” The humor was gone from the woman’s face as she settled more beside him, one hand in her lap and the other settled just beside his in a move that no doubt implied that he was more than welcomed to hold it if he needed to. “Who was he?”

“My flatmate. My best friend. My...”

‘ _ **My everything**_ ’ seems like revealing too much to a woman he just met, so John had given her the best smile that he could manage that no doubt was more grimace than anything remotely resembling good cheer before motioning to the bartender that he needed a top off, his brows rising slightly when The Woman-he had a mental chuckle when he realized the significance of _that_ particular nickname-had ordered a Guinness with a hint of her lost merriment.

“What? I’m not driving anyone anywhere tonight and my friends seem to be getting along just fine without me...”

John had glanced over to where she nods and sees a small group laughing at something one of them has said, their moves the loose and uncoordinated dance of the truly inebriated. It had brought some of his own flagging good mood back when one of them inadvertently ends up flailing right into another’s face, a cascade of apologies and laughter causing a few of the other patrons to glance over in their direction, more than a few raised brows and mutterings following after.

“They seem like a lively bunch.” John had offered neutrally, his smile growing as The Woman huffed out an exasperated sigh beside him.

“They drive me mad half the time, but I love them anyway...” There had been another loud thud at her words, coupled with a few of the other patrons asking if everyone was alright-John had given a cursory glance; no obvious wounds or actions that might lead to unconsciousness, they didn’t need him-while The Woman had closed her eyes and amended, “Well, _most_ of the time.”

John’s lips had quirked when he recalled scratches and burns on the kitchen table from experiments gone horribly wrong, decomposing limbs sitting right next to the food that they ate because ‘the freezers at the morgue can’t vary in temperature’, and violin scratchings at three in the morning followed by dark moods in the middle of the afternoon when there were no ‘interesting’ cases to be solved.

“I know _exactly_ what you mean.”

The Woman’s eyes had lit up then-no doubt hearing the warmth that had crept into his voice at those words-and she had opened her mouth to speak, but their drinks had arrived then, cutting off whatever she had wanted to say; The Woman throwing back more than half of her glass in one long swallow made John forget about asking her what it was she was going to tell him as he had given her another look, something she had just laughed at and motioned to his own full glass.

“Just trying to catch up, hon. I’m Mary, by the way, Mary Morstan.”

John remembers _feeling_ for the first time since... well, since that afternoon in front of Bart’s; he remembers looking at Mary’s smile and thinking ‘ _ **He’d want me to be happy**_ ’ with only a dull throb at the reminder of Sherlock’s absence making itself known, instead of the stabbing pain it had been...

It might have been the overabundance of liquor, it might have been the way Mary had offered companionship without making it seem like she wanted more, but John felt like some of the weight on his shoulders _shifted_ a little, so the burden was a little easier to bear.

It was a nice feeling.

He had picked up his glass then, turned so that he was facing Mary and gave her Guinness a little tap that had her giving him the same smile that she had when she first made her way over to where he sat, hating the world and everyone in it.

“John. John Watson.”

Her eyes had lit up even more as she had returned the gesture with her own drink.

“Pleased to meet you, John.”


End file.
